


Part VII: The Labor

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [25]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Illnesses, Marriage, Recovery, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:32:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rukia and Byakuya eagerly await Hisana's recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part VII: The Labor

**Part VII: Hymns of an Aftermath**

_The lightning flashes_

_And slashing through the darkness,_

_A night-heron's screech._

—Matsu Basho

* * *

_**Almost a week after the betrayal...** _

* * *

 

Rukia sits in the capacious parlor.

Shihōin manor is luxurious. The masters of the house have a taste for riches, but they mind the fine line between refined and lavish. Yes, there is a luxury in that manor—a luxury that does not color the august halls of Kuchiki Estate—but it does not stifle the soul or overwhelm the heart like Konoe Manor. Indeed, the depression that claws at her wits and gnashes at the thin cords of her nerves sounds from what lies beyond the door, not from the door itself.

Rukia blinks and takes stock of the room.

She barely paid it any heed when she took to her pillow. Yet, each day, the servants lay fresh tatami in alternating patterns. Each day, the walls seemingly change their colors. Today, a master artisan has painted the leaves of the rice paper brilliant shades of reds, oranges, and browns. The mural depicts a wild, knotted plum tree as it twists and sways in the wind at dusk.

The scene has been set to perfection.

From the looks of it, no one would even know. No one would know that simmering under the thin patina of calm there is a storm. It is desolate, but it is acutely felt, and it invades the opulence of that immaculately appointed room, turning the beauty of the waxed pine and fine art to ash.

Renji sits beside Rukia at a small oak table. His fingers close around his bowl of sake, and he pulls small, deliberate sips of the warm rice liquor. He barely moves. Probably, he does not wish to disturb her, she thinks. She is so prone to bouts of irascibility, lately. Her winter is thick, and it is deadly.

Letting the warmth of the small lacquer bowl heat her hands, Rukia stares into her drink. Her reflection breaks in the milky liquid; tiny waves lap at the edges, threatening to burst from its confinement should her breathing grow too ragged.

She looks as if she has aged twenty years. Her skin, a porcelain white, seems dull, as if it is on the verge of cracking. Her eyes are gray and sunken from lack of sleep. The hollows of her cheeks have become more apparent. Her hair is wiry and unkempt, but she remedies this inadequacy by raking her fingers through her dark black tresses.

It does no good. She could dress herself up in ribbons and finery, but it will not fill the abyss that grows in her stomach. At this realization, the corners of her lips slope down. Ah, the familiar burn of a frown sets her features; it has become a fixture on her face, a constant companion.

Rukia dares to sigh, and, with the exhalation, the rice wine trickles from her cup and soaks her skin. No matter. She needs something more potent to drown the sorrow anyway. This just isn't cutting it. Yet, she takes another mouthful, and she swallows the moment she eyes the door to the neighboring room.

Tears, unbidden, sting at her eyes. She won't give in, she tells herself. She just can't. She must be strong for Sister and for Brother.

"How long?" Renji's voice reaches her, but barely. His warm intonations get lost in the fog that conquers her. She is just too cognitively taxed, just too overwhelmed.

Given that Renji has taken to shorthand conversation-making, so is he.

When it becomes unbearable, Rukia's gaze slips to the babe cradled in her arms. Sometimes it helps. The boy's chubby pink cheeks and black curls prove to be an effective anodyne for her pain. But, no matter how much she tries to lose her thoughts in the baby's deep gray eyes, she cannot submit. A part of her—the sadistic part—always has to tear at the strings of her heart, ripping the wound open just a little more each time.

"Almost a week," comes her belated response. Her voice sounds mechanical, like dry gears grinding to a halt.

Yes, it has been almost a full week since sister fell ill. Shortly after giving birth, she began to fade. Inch by inch, her soul unspools. Inch by inch, she threatens to blink out of this world forever, lost to them.

They all wonder how much Sister has to give before the death is on her.

The healers have tried a number of therapies, and, each time they've believed they have solved the riddle that is Sister's aliment. Yet, their treatments turn up wanting. Last time, Sister regained consciousness. It was brief, but fate spared her long enough to meet her twin boys.

Rukia replays the memory with a bittersweet fondness.

_If she dies, then at least—_

Before she can complete her thought, Rukia chastises herself.  _How could you think something like that?_  her inner optimist rages inside her head.  _How cruel, Rukia! She is your sister! You might as well be wishing her dead!_

A deluge of guilt surges forth, sinking her heart and churning the contents in her stomach. There is pain, great, unyielding pain. It crushes her. It threatens to squash her breath. It promises to set every nerve and fiber on fire, rending her to little more than dirt.

Hoping to quell the hurricane brewing inside her chest, Rukia takes another swig of sake. The liquor burns its way down her throat until she begins to feel its effects. It starts as a tingle then it gives way to a delightful numbness; the sensation crawls its way through her body before taking up residence in her head. Too bad she's lousy with alcohol. The numbness never lasts, and it is always eclipsed by a pounding headache.

This time is no different.

"Captain Kuchiki," Renji murmurs.

For a brief moment, Rukia startles, thinking her friend is respectfully addressing her brother. Her eyes fly to the door, and she runs a hand down her uniform, rhythmically smoothing the wrinkles from her breast.

Brother never comes. No. Only a slightly ajar door confronts her. The small rectangular crack that exists between the door and the frame is a deep, flat shade of black. Indeed, the steely shades of an unwanted gloaming have descended upon Shihōin Manor. Only candlelight staves back the darkness and not well at that. The night is thick and desires to veil all in its colors.

"He hasn't left her side." Rukia's sullen expression deepens. What she means to say is that Brother hasn't left Sister's side for  _days_. Not since the betrayal. Brother has sat, kneeled in perfect seiza, for almost a week straight, refusing to break, not wishing to chance the moment Hisana departs this world forever.

Rukia refuses the tears that begin to swim in her vision, begging to be released.  _No_ , she insists, remembering something her brother told her many moons ago:  _We should not shed tears, Rukia, for tears merely exhibit the defeat of our hearts_.

And, her heart has yet to capitulate. There is still hope in her; it hums inside her veins, and it promises her that all will end well. Sister will live. Brother will not stalk the halls as a widower. She will not lose a close advisor and ally. And, most important, the boys will not go motherless.

Rukia's throat closes at the last reflection: If Hisana dies, then the twins will have no mother.

Reflexively, her lungs seize. She feels like she is drowning. Air refuses her, and her lungs simply stop. Misery proves to be an effective albatross, pulling her deeper and deeper into the undertow of the inky darkness of fear and regret.

When she attempts to inhale, she cannot spur her lungs to cooperate. One, two, three long breathless minutes pass, until she gulps at the thick, humid air, forcing it down her windpipe. Her chest clenches against her struggle, but, finally, it submits to her stubborn willfulness. Finally, her lungs inflate.

She has never even thought of her sister's demise in those terms. If the boys have no mother, who will raise them? Brother certainly will not. Not, that Rukia thinks Byakuya would turn the children out on the street. But….

_Brother?_

_A caretaker?_

The thought rings hollow in her mind.

Brother is many things: noble, courageous, intelligent, wealthy, ethical, traditional. But father-material? From the stories, Brother's parents were largely absent from his life. His father, while reputed to be a very warm, ethical man, was ill and cherished his duties to rank and eschewed his duties to his clan. His mother? She died shortly after his birth.

Brother's care was left mostly to servants and tutors, which made for a very wild, frustrated child, whose emotional dysregulation was legendary and was the source of many newspaper stories, scandals, and editorializing.

The boys deserve more than surrogate parents. They have the world at their feet, and there is so much ahead of them. The grief of being born under the dark veil of death shouldn't cling to them for what will surely be a long life.

In abject misery, Rukia heaves a heavy sigh.

_But it will._

Byakuya will likely recede into his duties, content in burying himself under mountains of clan affairs and work for a while. A while, however, is a long period of time for growing children. What is a drop in the ocean of time to Byakuya, will be several crucial developmental stages for his boys. And, Soul Society cannot suffer  _two_  wild, frustrated children. Neither can Brother. And, she? She would not abide such ill-behaved children, but she would be powerless to stop it. What authority would she have as an aunt?

 _Sister, you can't leave us._   _Please._

Renji stares hard into the small sliver of Hisana's labor room, and he takes another contemplative sip of sake. "What news from the Fourth?"

Rukia sighs. "They tell us to wait and see." Instructions that comforts neither her nor Brother. "Wait and see" sounds a whole lot like "give up," and she, Rukia Kuchiki, is  _not_  a giver-upper, and neither is Brother. It seems that she and her brother have at least that in common: Both of them possess an impatient spirit. Brother conceals his rancor and temper better than she. Outbursts and tantrums are fit only for  _children_ , not adults and especially not highborn. While Brother would never succumb to an emotional fit, she can see his anguish fighting to break through his restraints. It is a sharp, steely stare here. It is the clenching of a fist there. It is the biting chill of his wake. It is the intensity of his spiritual aura, one that sparks a deep sense of dread in all within its proximity.

Renji breathes a small sigh. "Is there anything else we can do?"

Renji, too, is an impatient soul. He should join the club, she thinks. She, Brother, Renji, and Ichigo would make a fantastic community with their hair-trigger tempers. At the very least, club meetings would be  _exciting_.

"No,  _Renji_ , there isn't anything—," she stops short, breath hitching in the hollow of her throat. "Wait!" Her eyes widen to the size of saucers, and she scolds herself for her blatant ineptitude. "Of course! Why am I so stupid?"

Immediately, she shoots up to her feet before rushing toward the door.

Renji stops her with a puzzled glance. "Rukia," he says, voice calm and even.

"Yes?" She can barely hold her excitement back.

His gaze falls to the warm bundle cradled in her arms. "The baby."

Her cheeks flush from the embarrassment of her exposed absentmindedness. "Of course," she says and gives a firm nod.

Just as he is about to take another quaff of his rice liquor, she stuffs the slumbering babe in his arms. "Rukia!" he protests, not quite sure what to do with it. "Now, I'm responsible for both of 'em!" A realization that clearly unsettles him.

"You're gonna be a great Uncle Renji!" She flings her arm over her head in a wild waving gesticulation before she dissolves in a blur of motion and spiritual particles.

* * *

Wrapped tightly in the shades of his discontentment, Byakuya sits motionless. At times, his grief steals his breath, and, once or twice, he wishes he could refuse its return.

"Hisana."

His wife's name falls from his pale cracked lips in the form of a lament. He nearly strangles on the syllables that once were music to his ears. When he first felt the sweet grip of love, he swore he could speak her name a thousand different ways and never grow bored of its sound.

Sorrow, however, has stolen his ballad, leaving only a requiem in its place.

With weak eyes, he searches the tenebrous hues of the room. His brows knit together at the sight of his wife. Her delicate body rests upon a bed of blood, smelling of death and lilac. A deep, impenetrable slumber has fallen over her, smoothing the lines of her face. Her flesh glistens like heavily burnished marble, white and wet. The fever has drenched her skin, stolen her strength, shrunken her body, and threatens to gnaw away at her soul until nothing remains.

Instinctively, his fingers press against her wrist, and he observes the motion of her chest as it rises and falls. He waits, and he watches, bathed in the tide of her fitful breaths. When her breathing becomes shallow, Byakuya keeps an eye trained on the hollow of her throat, watching as it deepens with each inhalation.

He holds her hand in an iron-tight grip, refusing to release it. It keeps him rooted there, in that solemn room. It keeps him rooted to the painful possibility that this is the last time he may be able to prove his affection to her. Decades have passed since their union, and his heart has never wavered. His heart will never waver, not even in death. It will remain frozen forever. The bond they share is unbreakable.

Lingering on this thought, he dips his head down and presses his lips to the back of her hand.

There is life still pumping through those veins of hers. A thready pulse flutters against his mouth. It is a faint flickering, licking against his lips. "Hisana," he murmurs. This time, his voice is stronger, more urgent.

With her name in his ears, the world seemingly peels away until all that remains is a silent void. It is a dark curtain, and it falls over him, numbing his senses until he is suspended in icy fear. It is blackness. It is raw. It consumes him, and it swallows him whole.

He has been here before, he tells himself, kneeled at her side and humbled. He has watched over her while she slept, holding her hand and speaking quiet prayers into the twilight.

He will not let her go. He simply cannot bear the thought of leaving her alone. Not in her state. He will be there for her when she draws her last breath, whenever that time may be.

"Milord?"

He blinks, eyes stinging and brain uncomprehending. It is only the nurse. Her shadow drapes over him and scatters across the walls. He doesn't know why she comes, why she stands at his back. He doesn't really care to hear her voice or her purpose.

"Your sons," she continues. There is hope in her expression, and it wounds him.

He knows she means well. Her offer is meant to beget a distraction. Anything to spark his heart. Anything to break his desolation. Pain, however, is not so easily diverted. It demands a substantial toll.

He blinks again, and his gaze drifts to the open exterior doors. Another night's blue haze weaves its way across the garden. Days have passed in the interim of his despair.

"The twins are well, milord," she urges his attention away from thoughts, dark and gloomy. "Would you like to hold them?"

He stares into the darkness that shrouds the room. A few long seconds pass before his eyes settle on his wife's slumbering form. Her heart barely beats, and the heat that once ate away at her strength subsides, leaving only cold, waxy skin.

Reflexively, he brushes a few stiff strands of hair from her forehead. The sensation of her damp tresses pacifies the tension in his chest. Caressingly, he continues to run his fingers through her tangled, inky locks, all the while staring lovingly into the dark wells of her eyes.

She seems so frail, so fragile. Has she always been this small? Even the weight of her hand seems feather-light against his palm. And her chest, it heaves. Shallow breaths, again.

"Lord Kuchiki." The nurse is losing him, and she is not a woman who takes defeat lightly. "Please, Lord Kuchiki, come," the woman calls again, beseechingly. There is a strain pulling at her vocal chords; this strain wasn't present in the beginning. "The Lady needs her rest."

He isn't keeping Hisana from her rest, he observes rather mordantly. Hisana appears to be quite at rest. That is the problem. If she would rouse, then he might consent to leaving her side for a brief moment.

Instead of obliging the nurse at his back, he continues to stare into the deep shadows veiling Hisana's eyes. The silvery light of moonbeams dances across her blanched complexion, coloring her countenance a haunting shade of pale blue. Reflexively, the hand caught in her hair rebounds, and he strokes the top of her head once more.

With a sad little huff, the nurse leaves him to stew in his misery. And what an exquisite misery it is.

Byakuya continues to search the shadows until he hears the clarion call of his name sounding from beyond the door. "Brother!"

He doesn't move a muscle in reply. No, he rather wishes his sister would leave him be. He wishes everyone would leave him be. There is no face—familiar or distant—he wishes to look upon in his present condition.

Hearing the door peel back, he stares ahead, eyes locked on the light that begins to flood into the room.

He doesn't acknowledge the sounds of heavy footfalls rushing toward him.

He merely shifts his gaze when Rukia falls to her knees before him.

"Brother!" she cries.

Her blue eyes are large and imploring as she leans forward on the pads of her hands. Receiving no response from her sibling, she turns to her sister. "Sister?" she whispers before cupping Hisana's cheek in her hand. "Cold," she murmurs under her breath, and she snatches her hand back as if the chill proves too penetrating.

Byakuya's eyes slip closed, and he inhales a deep breath. He is at his wit's end. He does not know how much patience he has to give his sister-in-law. If necessary, he will summon the guards to take her by force.

When he opens his eyes, he finds Rukia sitting stock still. Well,  _mostly_ still. Her gaze, however, frantically roams her sister's body with an urgency of which he has never encountered from Rukia.

"I know." Conviction burns in her voice; it is so bright that it seemingly scatters the darkness that clouds his head.

Without a moment's hesitation, Rukia springs to her feet and bounds toward the door, muttering something. The night's wind, however, is impenetrable, and it shatters her intonations into an incoherent collection of syllables.

He clenches his jaw and bows his head. "Rukia," he calls to her just before her shadow slinks out the room.

Her dark silhouette stops short. It is long and distorted. It stretches across the tatami and up the walls. He sees its flicker in his periphery, and he drops his gaze to the black that pools in his lap.

"Fetch a proper physician, one from the Fourth."

He doesn't spare her or her shadow a solemn glance. He knows she has taken her leave when the air becomes lighter, easier to inhale. She will obey his command. It is likely the same impulse that sent her to her feet and out the door in the first place.

Yet, when Rukia returns, it is much too soon. She could not have procured a medic from the Fourth. No, instead she brings a strange girl into the room. Byakuya watches as the pair settles down across from him, beside his wife. He does not question his sister-in-law's judgment. He simply cannot find the energy. Instead, he watches in forlorn silence.

The girl at Rukia's side is unfamiliar to him. She is slender, with long, ruddy-blond hair. Her reiatsu is  _different_ , not that of a typical Shinigami, but she does possess spiritual power.

Fleetingly, the girl's eyes flit up to meet his stare. Trapped in his gaze, she shudders at the intensity radiating from his eyes. A bright scarlet creeps across her cheeks, and, unable to bear the stinging of flesh, she drops her head. "Forgive me," she says in a chirpy, high-pitched voice.

When he does not respond in kind, she becomes immediately flustered. She lowers her head again, and the fall of her hair cascades down her shoulders. "My name is Orihime Inoue. I am Miss Kuchiki's friend from school." Her body stretches into a shallow bow.

 _Not the Academy but school_ , he notes to himself.

Byakuya closes his eyes and holds his breath. His jaw muscles shift under his ivory skin.

As much as he  _wants_  to trust his sister-in-law, it is becoming harder and harder for him abide her plan. But, he keeps his doubts, chastising and spiteful, to himself. For now.

"She is very lovely," the girl says as she examines his wife.

It is clear  _Rukia's school friend_  is loquacious. She probably prefers to conquer her anxiety verbally. He, however, cannot bear the sound of chattering, and the prospect of losing his wife amid the noise of a girl's inane banter draws his ire. Feeling the cusp of temper begin to pull apart, Byakuya manages to stop himself. Words, brutal and excoriating, burn like venom on his tongue, but he swallows his anguish and gnashes his teeth together.

Rukia places a conciliatory hand against Orihime's shoulder, and she offers her friend a gentle smile. "It's okay, Inoue." A benign nod of the head gives Orihime enough courage to continue.

"Yes, Miss Kuchiki," she murmurs, resolve cresting in her voice.

A few silent moments pass, but, slowly, the molecules in the room begin to accelerate and collide, creating a low frequency hum that ricochets off both wall and bone. The temperature steadily increases as Orihime summons her power.

Feeling the buzzing of particles careen toward the healer's hand, Byakuya blinks open his eyes.

The muscles in his stomach contract, and he jolts forward, unsure of whether he should allow the strange girl to continue. Rukia, however, is prepared for his confusion, and she settles him with a light touch. Her fingertips trail across the top of his hand. Her skin is cool, and he imagines there is kidō in her ministration for he relaxes almost reflexively.

"Orihime is a healer," Rukia assures him.

Byakuya chains his skepticism long enough to give the strange girl a chance.

He turns, ever vigilant, and watches the girl's technique.

It takes him a few moments to apprehend the source of the girl's ability for her spell is unlike any healing kidō he's ever witnessed. Yet, it appears to be just as effective.

A white light cuts the darkness as it wraps around his wife abdomen like a shield. Its rejuvenating effects are quick and seemingly painless. But, what is this? he wonders in silence. If not kidō, then what?

He does not inquire as to the girl's purpose or why she possesses such a fantastical ability. Such questions are better left to a time and place where they would not be considered sentiments of ingratitude. Instead, he continues to observe. His steely gaze gradually loses its iron, and his muscles relax fiber by stubborn fiber when he sees his wife's color return.

Yet, he remains at a loss. He cannot apprehend the source of the girl's manipulation. It is some powerful sorcery. That much he can deduce. It is a sorcery that he heretofore has never encountered. If he is not mistaken, her power appears to be a form of time distortion, as if she is pulling back the layers of events past and restoring his wife to a previous condition.

It cannot be, he thinks. Such power belongs only to the gods and their descendants. A mere mortal cannot possibly….

Yet, there it is.

"I think that's all," Orihime murmurs and straightens her back. "Unless you want her to be pregnant again." The girl springs for levity, but all she garners are confused and perturbed stares. Byakuya has the presence of mind to turn his heated glaring to Rukia so as to maintain the façade of studied gratitude.

Rukia gives a strained but well-meaning smile. "Yes, ha, ha, ha." Her leaden laughter quickly dissolves into a hacking fit.

"You okay, Miss Kuchiki?"

"Yep," Rukia wheezes. Once she comports herself, she gives her brother a shy glance and lifts her head, revealing a red blush on her cheeks. "It was close, but I think I'm gonna make it," she teases lightly.

Orihime stares at Rukia, nonplussed. "Oh? Was it that bad?"

Before the girls can continue to  _annoy_  him with their adolescent prattling, Byakuya interrupts them with an abrupt, "Orihime Inoue." He pulls his shoulders back and straightens his spine. "I extend to you my greatest appreciation. Whatever you require, if my House has the power to procure it, is yours."

"Buttered yams!" she blurts out, as if the offer is time-sensitive.

Byakuya stares at her, partly shocked and partly indignant. Who does this child think he is?  _Her_  retainer?

"I think what Brother means is that we should inform the servants of our requests," Rukia interrupts.

"Servants?" the girls asks with a curious tilt of the head.

"Yes," Rukia says, quickly redirecting her friend, "It is more  _efficient_  than yelling our desires at Brother." Sweetly, Rukia takes her friend's hand and leads her to the door.

"You have  _servants_?" The girl is  _astonished_. "Are you loaded?"

Rukia politely refuses to acknowledge the latter question. "Yes, yes, we have servants. Now, come. You can meet them, and we will get you those yams."

"With butter?"

"If they have butter."

Hearing the girls' voices fade into the distance, Byakuya watches his wife with a look of great desiderium. Her breathing, once wispy and ragged, has become quiet and strong. The gray circles that, only moments ago, darkened her eyes have diminished, and the heat returns to her flesh.

His grip on her tightens, and he dips his head down to kiss the back of her hand. Pressing his lips against her silken skin, he inhales a deep breath. The fragrance of blood and lilac still cling to her. Both prove to be a potent reminder of the fate they have freshly thwarted.

"Lord Kuchiki?"

His breath hitches in his throat, and his eyes fly to her countenance. She is awake. Her gaze is tired and clouded by a thick mental fog, but he does not mistake the glimmer of amethyst that shimmers in the silvery moonlight.

Her hand closes around his, and she gives him a firm squeeze. "My sweet lord."

Her voice, even throaty and strained, is music to his ears, and her thin, gentle smile threatens to break his heart. Words, however, escape him.

"You look so pained." With all the strength she can rally, she lifts her arm and places a tender hand against his cheek. Slowly, the veil of her affliction diminishes, and the intensity of her gaze returns.

There is fire in her stare, he thinks. A fire he relishes. A fire he has longed to see return for many days now.

Reflexively, Byakuya turns into the warmth of her palm. His lips find the joint of her thumb, and he kisses her. Again and again, and once more for good measure. His brain is still trying to adjust, too incredulous to bask in the apparent happiness that has been reclaimed.

Inhaling a deep breath, he closes his eyes. The tightness of his grip on her hand diminishes. The slow burn of fibers, taut as steel cable cords, releasing prickles under his skin. It feels almost pleasurable, he thinks. But, before he has the chance to properly rejoice at his good fortune, his eyes snap open at the rustling sound of fabric pulling against fabric.

Hisana gathers herself up. Her body proves strong enough to support her weight as she takes a seated pose on the bed.

"Please," he murmurs into her hand. His warm breath heats her flesh, and his lips linger against her small palm. "Rest, my lady."

"My sister?" she says, voice frantic.

Ah, yes. She does not recall. Time has seemingly stopped for her. She remains ignorant of Aizen's betrayal, her sister's rescue, and the subsequent aftermath.

"She is well."

Hisana exhales a long breath, satisfied with his response. This satisfaction, however, is fleeting. It takes only a few seconds for her mind to find another pressing worry to fill it. "The babies?"

Gently, he places a hand on her shoulder, and he guides her back down to the bed. "Well."

There is nothing with which to concern herself.

"Renji?"

"Also well."

"What of the drifters?"

Byakuya gives a long shake of his head. He will not expose the ambivalence he feels toward the drifters to his poor, sick wife, but he feels it all the same. He can forgive their actions for the simple fact that they aided in Rukia's rescue, but he cannot abide their methods. He cannot abide their affiliation with a  _criminal_ , one who was thought long dead. He cannot abide the fact that somehow, someway he has allowed Rukia to convince him to allow those  _children_  to take respite in his noble halls.

Although, if he remembers correctly, he never granted Rukia permission to do what she did. No. She made her request, and he merely left her with the words hanging thick in the space between them. Rukia, ever the enterprising soul, merely interpreted his silence as begrudging acceptance.

"Rest, my lady," he repeats, drawing a heavy blanket across her chest. "You will need your strength."

With that, she settles into the bed. Words are trapped in her stare. They burn in those violet eyes of hers, but she dares not to speak them. Instead, she lovingly runs a hand through his hair, pushing a few errant strands behind his ear. "Yes, milord."

Byakuya stays by her side through the night, never letting go of her hand.

The next day dawns, heralding a rainstorm.

Byakuya gently dresses his wife in fresh clothes, and he summons servants to set a new futon. Hisana remains weak. Her legs are unsteady. Her skin is still two shades too pale, but there is strength in her eyes, and she shares her smiles freely.

Situated on the bed, she returns his gaze as he kneels before her. Contentment pools in the depths of her stare, and she holds his large hand with her two small ones. "I don't deserve your affection, milord."

He is about to counter that she deserves more than he has to give, but he is interrupted by a well-intentioned intruder.

"The boys," an attendant gushes as she enters the room with the twins in tow.

Byakuya does not have the chance to stay the woman with reason. His wife is too frail. She is only beginning to recover. She cannot suffer the excitement of children. He, however, cannot arrange his words in quick enough fashion to stop the woman barreling toward them.

Without a moment's hesitation, the nurse molds Hisana's arms around the twins, careful to try the mother's strength before rising.

"They look just like their father," Hisana declares, contented at feeling the weight of her children in her wiry arms. She presses sweet kisses to the boys' heads, and she beams up at her husband.

Byakuya watches her with immense concern. She is still too fragile, he thinks, and the minutes wear on her, stripping her of her vitality with each tick of the second hand. His gaze drops to his sons, both of whom are model infants. They possess the dark hair of their mother and father along with the Kuchiki ivory skin. Their eyes are the color of a storm cloud ready to burst, and they each possess enough reiatsu that, if perfected, should guarantee them admittance to the Academy.

But, it is not the children that spurn his worry. The children are healthy and thriving. His wife, however, he nearly lost her, and it is her wellbeing that concerns him.

Hisana's gaze, once rooted to her boys, darts up and across the room to the nurse. "Have they been fed?" she asks.

Byakuya straightens at this question. She cannot possibly. She does not have the strength. Doesn't she know this? But, the lump building in his throat tells him otherwise. Yes, it is true. His wife's astounding lack of self-preservation has always concerned him. Hisana would give her dying breath to a good-natured stranger. But, not to today, he thinks, and he swiftly stays the nurse with a piercing blast of reiatsu.

Cowering, the nurse responds to the presentiment that crashes over her with a gasp. Beads of sweat collect on her forehead, and she chokes on the stabbing shards of air flooding her lungs. "Yes, milady," she says, trying her best to recover without alarming her mistress, "We have retained several wet nurses for the boys. All of them come highly recommended."

Hisana's smile fades and a small wrinkle forms between her brows. Her disappointment is brief but apparent. She hides it well, stuffing it down as she nods her understanding. "Of course."

"When you begin to feel yourself, milady, we will place the infants with you to sleep. That will help you produce the necessary sustenance for the boys." The attendant gives her a sly wink before scooping the children into her strong, matronly arms. "They are true gems, milady." A fond smile lengthens the servant's lips as she peers down into the infants' faces. "Mommy needs her rest now," she coos to them in an even cadence.

Hisana lowers her head politely, and she swallows her protest. "Thank you." The words hang undisturbed in the air for a few moments. Hisana, then, turns to her husband. She cannot help but notice the remoteness of his stare, as if he is tangled in a web of ideas.

He is lost. Lost in thought. Lost to her. Suspended in a moment.

Hisana's gaze then slides back to the nurse. She gives a firm nod of the head, the type of nod that sends the woman pivoting on her heel toward the door. Before exiting the room, the nurse gives her master and mistress a small but courteous bow.

Hisana watches as the door slides open. A rectangular sliver of light falls across the floor. It is effulgent and warm, like lit honey. But, as soon as the door retracts on its hinges, the light fades until the darkness returns, undisturbed.

"Is all well, milord?"

Hisana hides her discontent with a breathy tone, but he senses it all the same. Likely, she judged his performance and found it wanting.

Tracing the contour of her knuckle with his thumb, Byakuya tucks his chin to his neck, and his gaze falls to his lap. His heart stops, his head hangs, and the lines of his face harden into a look of repentance. "Please, forgive me, Hisana. If you can find it in your heart."

Her brows furrow over inquisitive eyes. "Milord?"

Slightly, he turns his head to the side, just enough to glimpse her. "It was my fault for not informing you." Abject misery blackens his visage, but, before he can continue, she stops him with a gentle squeeze of his hand.

"Lord Byakuya," she begins in her patented buttery voice, "there is nothing for which to apologize. My sister is alive and well, and you gave me two healthy, happy baby boys. My heart is full, and it is content, milord."

He raises his head, reflexively. As much as he would like to find comfort in her words, he cannot. He has betrayed her trust, and he will have to find a way to make it up to her. It will be a long time before his shame will abate. Even longer before he can look her in the eyes and feel that he warrants her tenderness. "My lady is too generous," he says, then presses his lips to her hand. "I do not deserve such kindness."

Hisana grins at her husband's rare moment of self-effacement. "My husband deserves all the kindness in the world and more." A wry quirk to her mouth gives her away, and she pulls him close. "Lay with me, Lord Byakuya." Her breath is hot against the shell of his ear and smells of the honey flavored medicine the Fourth had prepared for her convalescence.

It doesn't take much to convince him to submit to her appeal. A soft kiss to the lips shatters his resolve, and, before he knows it, her body is snuggled close against him. His weight sinks into the mattress, and she curls around his body as if she was specifically made to fit.

His body has always radiated heat like a furnace, and that day is no different. Hisana craves his warmth; it keeps the chill from rattling around her bones. That ghastly chill, she thinks. It is the very one she thought she had conquered fifty-five years ago. And, just like then, when she was on her deathbed with her dearest at her side, his presence pacifies the angry burn that accompanies the uncoupling of a spirit from its flesh.

She wonders if he will ever know—ever truly understand—just how fortunate she feels to have known him. Who else would wait, day and night, at her side, willing her to rouse and praying for her wellness? No one else.

Perhaps, the rumors are true. Perhaps, you get only one true, deep love. If so, then this is surely it.

Hisana trembles at this thought and the inferences her mind hastily draws. Undoubtedly, she will predecease him. He is strong, wise, and fair. He  _deserves_  to outlive her. It would only be just. But, if she is the only soul who can reach him, what a terrible fate. She simply will not allow him to suffer a world made dark by the deprivation of a close confidante. With weary resignation, she resolves to simply live forever. Her dear husband shall not be made to go without. She lo—

Her heart stops, swift and hard. So hard that it triggers a ripple of hard stops and starts throughout her entire being. It feels as if she has been struck by a thunderbolt, and her muscles jump and twitch against the impact. Excitedly, she pins him with a wide-eyed urgency. She must tell him. Now. Right that very moment.

"I love you, Byakuya. With my whole heart."

Her voice is so quiet, so low. It reaches him as a mere whisper. But, he hears it as if it had been shouted from on high, and, suddenly, he feels like he is falling. His heart races, his blood pounds in his veins, and his throat clenches shut. Adrenaline courses through him, and the sensation is at once visceral and thrilling.

Hoping to hold onto the sensations' remnants for as long as possible, he pulls her tightly against him, and he loses himself in her presence.


End file.
